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“I got that much. But what does that look like to you? Am I supposed to stand beside you and look pretty? Make moon eyes at you all night?”
“Yes.”
“What about PDA?”
“What about it?”
“The contract says we’re supposed to be affectionate in person. That could mean anything depending on what your boundaries are. Are we talking holding hands, dancing, kissing? I need parameters because I’m super touchy-feely and not everyone is comfortable with that.”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with is fine.”
“You’re sooooo not helping,” I grumbled. “I’m trying to get into character and you’re not giving me anything to work with.”
“Just be yourself,” he said. “It’ll be more believable if you’re not trying to play a part.”
“What have you told people about me?”
“That you’re younger, attractive, and completely smitten with me.” He shrugged. “I left the details vague on purpose.”
“I can work with that. But what if people ask about me? Am I supposed to answer honestly? What if they ask what I do for work? Or how we met? We need a backstory.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose we do. We could tell people we met at your work. Your café job,” he added. “I went in for coffee, we got to talking, and the rest is history.”
“That’s a solid beginning, but we need to spice it up a bit. Why did we start talking? There needs to be a meet-cute beyond you ordered coffee.”
“There does?”
“Yes. People like details and cute stories. Did you hit on me? Or was I the aggressor? Was it an instant thing, or did one of us have to work for it?” I studied him for a beat. “You were totally the one who hit on me. I resisted, of course. But you wouldn’t be deterred. On your third visit, you gave me your card. I texted, and we started talking. I made you wait to take me out because I’m classy like that, but after a few weeks, we went on a date. Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Yeah. Now you fill in the blanks. Where did you take me?”
“I took you to dinner—”
“Boring.”
“What’s wrong with dinner?”
“Nothing, if you’re boring. You were trying to woo me. You gotta do better than dinner.”
He paused. “What if it was a rooftop picnic?”
“Now we’re talking. Then what?”
“Then we spent the weekend in my room getting to know each other in the biblical sense.” He grinned.
“Not loving that I’m apparently easy enough to spend a whole weekend in bed with you after one rooftop picnic, but I’ll allow it.”
He chuckled.
“Okay, so we’ve got our meet-cute. What about me? Am I using my real name? What do I tell people if they ask about my job? I don’t exactly fit into your world.”
“You can go by whatever name you want, but you don’t have to hide who you are.”
“You’d be okay with people knowing I’m a stripper and not just a barista?” I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
“Why not? In fact, I think it would be highly entertaining to see people’s reactions to the news.”
